


in some soft time just a moment

by feralphoenix



Series: the away game [5]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anxiety, Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - C-PTSD, DFAB Chara, Disabled Character, Domestic, Explicit Sexual Content, Other, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Pussy Worship, Size Difference, Spoilers - Undertale Pacifist Route, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 04:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12809715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: Asriel is home on a long break, for once; Chara intends to enjoy the situation while it lasts.





	in some soft time just a moment

**Author's Note:**

> _(that stained-glass expression on your face_ – the blue sugar dust of all of [me](https://soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems/it-is-raining-in-new-england-by-katie-clark))

The first thing you’re aware of when you wake is how wet you are.

It’s not unusual at all for you to wake up already wet—this happens about half the time, even without counting any leftover wetness from sex you had the night before. If you _don’t_ wake up wet at least two or three times every week, that’s either a warning sign that you’re in a depressive slump or that your meds are too strong, and thus that you need to talk to someone to figure out which and get help.

Even for you, though, this morning’s wetness is extraordinary. Your arousal is thick and velvety, warm and smooth from the sensitive insides of your thighs to the base of your ass. Shifting under the covers makes your pussy ache: The swollen lips and clit, yes, of course, but also the parts that are inside you. Still muzzy, not even opening your eyes yet, you drag your right hand across the sheets and up over your stomach, fingers trailing through your pubes on the way to gently cup yourself. A low noise rises from your chest almost into your throat, tangible at your clavicle. The precome that spills across your fingers is silky and dense, the kind that will trail thickly if you take your hands away. And your vulva thrums steadily—not the rapid battering of blood between your legs that heralds orgasm, but a readiness and a hunger, the rich sweetness of longing.

The tip of your middle finger finds the entrance to your vagina and sinks in readily, not quite all the way to the knuckle. A test for the waters—you’re open, relaxed, ready for more fingers or a tongue or Asriel’s cock if you want to get ambitious—and a whetting to which your pussy rouses. There’s firm pressure in your lower belly. Sliding your finger in deeper makes a wet noise that gives you goosebumps and hardens your nipples.

You could come like this—you could _really_ come like this, probably soak through the sheets and into the mattress, if you try—but knowing you could share this honeyed, sunlit arousal with a partner makes that thought feel unsatisfying.

Maybe this is what it feels like for Frisk, when they complain about their pussy feeling empty. You’ve always felt complete without penetration; your partners’ tongues, Asriel’s cock, Frisk’s fingers and even your own are welcome guests in your body at most. It’s just that right now your craving to have Asriel inside you feels elemental, too vast to simply call _want._

You roll a little, right hand still tucked between your legs, and reach up with your left to clear your eyes of sleep before you open them.

It’s warm half-light in the bedroom, glow showing faintly through the heavy curtains. Asriel’s chest is maybe six inches from your face, and you have to tip your chin up to see his sleeping face and the faint light gilding his outlines, lighting up his fur. He’s got the comforter half kicked off, the slope of gold-streaked white unbroken past his hips. Looking idly down, back across the broad chest and over the heavy belly, rewards you. The thick lips of his sheath are split wide around the dark pink column of his cock, which is mostly erect but lists gently along his upper thigh, too heavy and not yet hard enough to stick straight out.

The walls of your pussy constrict a little, gently tickling the length of your middle finger. You shiver and lay your free hand against Asriel’s chest, giving him a soft scritch. “Ree. It’s morning.”

He groans and stretches. Between you his cock jumps a little. A bead of your own precome runs lazily down your thigh. “Chara, I don’t wanna get out of bed.”

You giggle. “Luckily you are on vacation, and there are plenty of fun things to do while we’re still in bed.”

This gets him to open his eyes and consider you. With half of his face still mushed up against the pillow the effect is a little comical, but you can see his pupils dilate as he notices where your hand is, and you smirk.

“God,” Asriel breathes, “I love waking up with you,” and he puts a gentle hand atop the comforter to reel you in closer.

He slips his tongue right into your mouth without preamble, one eyetooth pressed against your lower lip, and he gets the tip of his tongue underneath yours and licks lovingly and you whine into his mouth.

The tip of his cock grazes your thighs and you lift one leg so that he can slide the shaft between them. It’s deliciously hot against your skin. He makes a noise against your lips that you’re pretty sure isn’t just from you sucking on his tongue, which he confirms by pulling out of the kiss.

“Chara, is that all—?”

Panting a little, you smile and finally retract your finger from inside you with a soft slick noise. You hold your right hand up for Asriel to see.

His tongue flicks out big and pink to lap at the thick precome on your fingers and palm, and then he gently closes his mouth over the top of your hand to suckle it, tongue gently working between your fingers until you’re both whining. His hips are pumping shallowly, fucking your thighs, gliding soft and easy through your precome. The shaft of his cock grazes your clit, brief little kisses of flesh on flesh. He slides one big hand under the covers to rest it on your ribs, thumbs your nipple.

“Ree, _please,_ I want you _now,”_ you say low and breathless, and Asriel moans around your fingers and opens his mouth to let them go, and

he rolls you onto your back.

Maybe it’s how strongly your back hits the mattress or maybe it’s Asriel looming over you and having no easy escape, you don’t know, but Asriel’s expression changes and he lifts an arm and shifts his weight back to sit next to you right as your heart starts burbling sickly in your chest and chills sweep the length of your skin.

“I’m sorry, that was too much too fast,” Asriel says. “Let’s take a break?”

You nod weakly and pull the pillow out from under your head and shoulders, press your thighs together and scoot your feet up so that your upper body’s perfectly horizontal and your knees are elevated, your feet flat on the mattress. Slowly the sound of rushing air in your ears dissipates and sensation comes back to your limbs, the deeply unpleasant feeling of your heart percolating beginning to dissipate.

Through all of this Asriel just sits beside you and watches, not crowding and not pressuring. It’s hardly the first time something’s set you off during sex and you’ve had to pause and step back. So he knows the most helpful way to act, and honestly you’re grateful for it.

Nerves still on fire with adrenaline, you focus on breathing: In for seven, hold for five, out for seven, hold for five again. You tap your fingertips on your sides to keep a steady pace. You don’t keep track of how long it takes.

Finally, though, you sigh, PTSD jitters crammed back into the musty box where they belong. Asriel must notice you relaxing, because the tension leaks out of the line of his shoulders too.

“Want to pick back up, or not right now?” he asks.

You’re _calm,_ yes, but that perfect sun-dappled arousal is dead and dusted. Your thighs and your crotch are still slicked thick with precome, but it’s just a vague chill and discomfort now instead of being preternaturally erotic. The spark has vanished back into the ether from whence it appeared.

“Unfortunately I appear to be in the awkward position of having to write an obituary for my boner,” you say.

“Here lies Chara’s boner,” Asriel goes on solemnly, nodding. “It was a good boner.”

“It tried. We may have better luck on the subject later today.”

“Gotcha. I can just go take care of mine in the bathroom or something, don’t worry.”

You pause a little in pulling the heavy comforter and sheets back over yourself, enjoying the weight over your body, to look at him. “You can stay and do that here if you want. It wouldn’t bother me.”

Asriel blinks, tawny brown eyes very round. “Oh! Sure, as long as you’re okay with that.”

He turns along the mattress so that his back is almost facing you, legs stretched out, one massive paw hanging off the side of the bed. You prop yourself back up on pillows while he licks the pads of his left hand, making sure you’re high enough up for a clear view of his cock and his balls.

From the root to the tip of the head, Asriel’s penis is a little longer than the span of his hand from heel to claws. To put it in perspective, this is the approximate length of Frisk’s forearm, and it is approximately as thick as your wrists. His balls are each a soft handful for you. It’s a beautiful shape, the head a bit less prominent than a human cock; when he’s very hard it juts upward instead of straight out and curves a bit. The flesh is the same red-pink color and smooth wet texture as your vulva or Frisk’s, pleasant to touch.

Taking him inside you is akin to what you imagine getting fisted is like—you need foreplay and you need to have sex regularly to keep your body limber enough to do it without it being uncomfortable or painful for both of you. So Asriel’s long work absences are frustrating in terms of sex, too; you hate the feel of most penetrative toys, their insufficient give and their wrong texture. When he’s finally home you have to take at least a day or two to reacclimate your body before even _trying_ PIV again, even when that’s what you want the most.

Necessity means you generally think of Asriel’s size in comparison to yours or to Frisk’s. Watching him masturbate, though, puts his size in relief, restores its proper context to it as a part of Asriel’s body.

He wraps the fingers of his left hand around the shaft, careful so that only the pads on his fingertips touch it, avoiding contact with his claws or his fur. He shivers and gasps, squeezes his eyes shut. His eyebrows, barely visible through his messy bangs, squeeze together almost as if he’s in pain.

The fingertips rub halves of a spiral, back and forth, and he sweeps his thumb up. Welling precome smears under the pad, and Asriel’s jaw drops open slightly to let out a low rich moan. His ears flop and sway. The fur along his spine raises a little. His chest and belly both heave, and he flexes his toes on open air.

You watch all this warmly, taking in the little details you can never manage to appreciate when the two of you are actually fucking, your attention always taken up by your pleasure and his closeness and the need to come. At least one thing can be said for the anxiety attack: It’s a lot easier to just contentedly look at Asriel working his own cock and think about how pretty he is when you’re still too shaky for the view to turn you on.

He folds his hand around the shaft now, still too loose to trap his dick in an uncomfortable fur muff, but his fingertips overlap all the same. Yours never quite touch when you’re giving him a handjob. He slips his right hand between his legs too, cupping his balls gently and kneading even more gently. The sounds he’s making are needy and wordless, only broken by his openmouthed gasps. Asriel is messy, whining and sobbing, his tongue hanging slightly out; his eyes are teary and unfocused, his nose is running a little, and he’s drooling. When you’re the one who’s making him lose it like this it’s so erotic it nearly embarrasses you. Here, now, watching him unspool himself in front of you, it’s just endearing.

“Oh Chara,” he cries, and his back arches, “Chara, oh, oh—” and his cock jumps in his hands and he comes in two hard spurts that land on the comforter. The rest leaks out in little pulses all over his hands as his penis begins to soften.

Asriel lets go of himself and plants both messy hands on the sheets, leaning back to support his weight on them, breath still ragged. You pull your legs out from under the covers and crawl across the mattress to sit behind him, leaning your whole weight into his back. His body’s sweetly warm, temperature still soaring from his orgasm.

You bury your face in his fur and breathe in: He smells like fresh laundry, which these bedclothes were until you had sex last night; he also smells like sweat (his, yours) and come (mostly his, but yours too, faintly).

You breathe out and then in again, get your hands into his fur and rub his back and sides up and down, fluffing his coat up and smoothing it back into place. You kiss him just under the shoulder blade.

“Good morning,” you say, and kiss him there again.

“Whoo,” he replies, and starts to laugh.

 

 

Asriel steps into the shower first, busily sluicing sweat out of his fur. You can tell when he washes his dick and the inside of his sheath because he hisses a little, still oversensitive. Not in the mood for soaking in the tub—the hot water would run out faster if both faucets were running anyway—you wipe precome off your thighs and your ass with toilet paper and then sit down to take a piss too because you might as well. There are flakes of Asriel’s dried come on your stomach and your knee from last night, and you flick them off with a fingernail.

He’s still not finished when you are, so you brush your teeth and take your meds instead: Birth control, antidepressants, and painkillers. Your lower back’s already starting to hurt from last night; you’re just nowhere near as good as Frisk at fingering Asriel’s come out afterwards since you have to use your off hand. You’re doomed to morning-after cramps whenever they’re not home to help.

And Asriel is _still_ in the shower, so you walk back into the bedroom and strip off the dirty bedclothes, dumping them into the hamper so that you won’t get any come on the carpet. You can replace them once you’re clean. As an afterthought, you pull the hamper over to the door, because the laundry definitely needs doing.

Asriel walks into the bedroom at the same time you turn back around. He’s already dry and his fur is puffed out on end, a sure sign that he dried off instantly with magic instead of bothering to use a blowdryer and a brush.

You guess it’s not like you’re going to be running around outside where anyone will care, though.

“I’ll get breakfast started while you wash up,” he says, and leans down so you can smooch him before heading to the closet to pick out clothes. You step carefully into the bathroom and turn the shower back on.

There’s a wet glob of white fur sitting in the trash, which makes you smile; at least you don’t have to empty out the hair catcher if he already has. You unhook the clasp of your locket and leave it next to the sink. This is the only time of day you ever take it off.

You take your time in the shower, close your eyes and let the water tap on your back for a while before you bother washing your hair and then your body. The fingers of your left hand are stiff, even despite the little exercises you do with them every day to relieve your overstressed tendons and muscles. You probably ought to try harder to remember to put a brace on before you go to sleep. One of your partners being home means you’re doing less stress knitting anyway, and resting your joints will spare them a lot of future wear and tear.

When you’re done you dry off vigorously in a towel first, and fix a pad to your boyshorts to keep morning-after discharge from staining them before you pull them on. Then you hook yourself into a sports bra, and spend a few minutes drying your hair before dragging on jeans and a t-shirt and fixing the clasp of your locket at the nape of your neck.

Muffled sounds from downstairs mean that Asriel’s probably already working on breakfast, so you just get a new set of sheets out and lay them on top of the mattress instead of trying to put them on. The bed’s so huge that changing the sheets by yourself is a Production—you have to crawl across the mattress pulling the sheets after you unless you have one of your partners there to take the other side, and you can never get them a hundred percent perfectly straight.

You unplug your phone from where it was charging on the windowsill, turn it on, and open your private chat program. You pause for a moment to put your wrist braces on and then select Frisk from the address book.

 _Good morning,_ you type.

 _its already almost noon u know,_ Frisk replies almost right away. _lucky_

And you’re happy to have Asriel all to yourself for a while, really you are, but you feel the pang of loneliness as a physical ache even so. _It would have been nice to have you here too for morning cuddles._

_it wouldve been!!!!!!!!!!!!! blaaaaaaaaarrr i miss u guys. i miss lazy mornings and lazy smooches and just layin around on asriels dick_

You ought to be used to remarks like this out of them but you still laugh. _Don’t worry, I’ll keep it warm for you until you can come back and sit on it yourself._

 _omg,_ Frisk replies almost immediately. _pls take pix_

_I probably won’t? I don’t want to enable you to torture yourself._

_thats fair i guess, but it would be hot & i wanna see u guys having fun :oooooo_

_Maybe. God only knows I still have to pay you back for all those ridiculous sexy selfies you keep sending ME._

_no new 1s 2day,_ Frisk says, following it up with a sad face emoji. _gotta meeting, not enough time 4 a sexxie photo shoot_

 _Please go to your meeting,_ you tell them. _Asriel and I will be around to keep you company after it’s finished._

 _siiiiiiiiiiigh fiiiiiiiiiiiiiine,_ Frisk replies, and then spams sparkly hearts at you. You reply with a single modest heart, close the chat, and cram your phone into your pocket. Breakfast is waiting.

 

 

“I was just about to put the bacon on the skillet, good timing,” Asriel says when you finally arrive in the kitchen. “D’you want the turkey stuff or the pork bacon?”

“Pork, since Frisk’s not here,” you tell him, pulling out your chair and sitting down. You only ever bother keeping kosher on holidays, but Frisk is stricter about it than you and never eats pork at all.

There’s probably some kind of joke there considering that you’re more serious about spirituality than they are, but even when they lived with their parents they actually went to temple from time to time, and Toriel helped them reconnect with a temple community back in your teen years. That was way too many humans for you to handle without having a small heart attack, and after a childhood of utter cultural isolation you’d been much more anxious about being accepted, so you spent a lot longer than them reluctant to even try. Frisk had to practically force you into talking to the rabbi over email.

(Come to think of it, you should probably message her sometime tomorrow—you got distracted for a couple days after Asriel came home.)

There’s a teapot in the middle of the table with a strainer, spoons, and various looseleaf tins; you scoop earl grey with vanilla into the strainer, pour hot water into your mug (Asriel kindly set out the one with Goy Tears printed on the side that Frisk’s rabbi gave you for your birthday last year, which is your favorite), and check what time it is before you drop the strainer in to let your tea steep.

“It’s brunch,” says Asriel from where he stands at the kitchen counter, “so I made a whole bunch of stuff.”

“I like the sound of a bunch of brunch.”

“You hush, I didn’t do that one on purpose. But you can get started on the rest of food while I make chocolate chip pancakes, so…”

“I love you,” you interrupt, tearing up a little without even having to try. When you’re home by yourself your breakfasts tend to be cereal or an apple or pear or takeout leftovers. Toriel and Asgore sometimes have you over for lunch or dinner, and when you spend days with Undyne and Alphys you always order out, but in terms of breakfast you are almost always left to your own devices. It is _so nice_ to have Asriel home with you.

Asriel sets out a wide ceramic container filled with one of Frisk’s rice recipes—white rice, tomatoes, peppers, and corn, conspicuously missing the usual black beans. Which is practical: Obviously the hope of more sex is in today’s plans, and beans can lead to a bit of a mood killer later. The rest of today’s menu includes sliced pineapple (you give Asriel a Look, which he pretends not to see) along with fluffy scrambled eggs and the bacon.

You remove the strainer from your tea and cut the scrambled eggs in half, spooning rice on top of the smaller portion and crumbling up one slice of the bacon to sprinkle on top of that. It’s all still steaming, and you breathe on it a little before devouring your first spoonful. Fresh homemade breakfast is the _best._

“Did we have any plans for today?” Asriel asks you, busy mixing batter.

“I don’t think so. We don’t need any groceries today, and tomorrow Undyne and Alphys will be coming over to work out. I think your father wanted us to go to his place for dinner and to help him with the garden because it’s time to pick fruit and vegetables tomorrow, too. I don’t want to do anything else strenuous tomorrow, and I want to save my energy for tomorrow too, so would you be very opposed to just staying home today?”

“Not even a little bit,” Asriel replies. “I should do some paperwork sometime but I also _really_ just want to lay around and play video games and cuddle.”

“That sounds like a _wonderful_ idea,” you tell him, and he snorts and pours batter into the frying pan to flip.

You finish your eggs first—they’re best when they’re warm—and have polished off your bacon by the time Asriel brings two plates of pancakes and sets them on the table. You grab for the chocolate sauce while he pulls out his chair and sits down.

“You don’t have to _drown_ them, Chara,” he says, sounding amused.

“I’m not _drowning_ anything,” you tell him, scowling at the pancakes as you aim carefully. This was supposed to be a scale drawing of Canes Venatici but Cor Caroli was too far to the right. You ponder whether blaming this on Asriel deciding your pancake-eating habits require an editorial would be unfair for a few seconds and then give up and cover your pancakes in diagonal lines of chocolate syrup instead of trying to show off. It would be rude to him if you let the breakfast he made for you get cold.

You keep your attention on the plates in front of you while you cut the pancakes and eat, so it isn’t until you raise your head that you notice Asriel is just staring at you with his head in his hands and a goofy smile, not touching his own plate.

“Do you need me to steal those from you, or are you going to eat them?” you ask, jabbing your fork at his pancake stack.

Asriel laughs and picks up his own monster-sized utensils. “No, I’m going to eat them, I just got distracted enjoying the view.”

You stretch your legs out beneath the table and prop your feet up on their heels. The pad of your foot touches Asriel’s warm pads, and you press softly against his foot while he grins and presses back. “Weirdo.”

 

 

Video games are and will always be extremely good.

Big console RPGs, ones that you’re all invested in, you make sure to only play when everyone’s home—this limits your selection a little bit, but there’s still plenty of things to enjoy. First Asriel loads up a colorful button-mashy platformer, one of the ones that strains your wrists and fingers so you can only enjoy it when one of your partners is playing it; this does not even remotely stop you from backseat driving. You lay all over Asriel’s arm and make a right nuisance of yourself until he gets too frustrated dying and quits.

Then he switches over to the recent Wolfenstein 2 remake, which doesn’t interest you even a little. Grungy first person shooters are deeply boring even when they _are_ about killing Nazis, and Asriel’s _way_ more into the realistic gore than you anyway. He turns the volume down for you and you lay sideways across the couch with your head and upper back rested on his thigh, and get out the latest Pokémon game to play that instead.

This occupies you for nearly an hour, but then you run into the ugly necessity of level grinding and your interest dwindles. You could power through it with determination, sure, but that would make your mood deteriorate when what you really want is to _enjoy_ the day off with Asriel, not sulk at game design choices you don’t like.

So you save and shut off your handheld and get out your phone instead, opening your chat with Frisk back up.

_How’s meetings going, o wise and powerful monster-humans relations ambassador?_

Frisk immediately buries their text field in that one face emoji that could either be sighing or sexily moaning, depending on how you look at it.

 _Nice,_ you reply to them. _It appears that you’ve nut many more times today than I have already, and it’s only 2 PM._

 _lol i wish!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_ Frisk replies. _ive only gotten off 3x so far and that wasnt since this morning :(_

 _Still more times than me,_ you reply.

_lmao really??? idve thought u & asriel would be at it like constantly_

_Some of us,_ you remind them lovingly, _possess a thing known as a refractory period, which occurs directly after orgasm and during which further genital contact leads almost inevitably to highly unpleasant overstimulation. Please, keep those of us who don’t like being fucked straight through said refractory period in mind when you make guesses as to what we may be doing in your absence._

 _lol to each their own ig???????_ Frisk replies. _so if ur not doing each other then wat ARE u doing…_

 _We are gaming the video, as the cool kids say, or at least said at one point in history and may in fact be saying again, I don’t keep up with the trends._ You pause after you send this. _Actually allow me to correct myself—Asriel is gaming the video, whereas I have stopped to keep you company as promised because I got bored._

_wats he playin_

_He’s headshotting overly-rendered ugly cis men with swastika armbands._

_ahaaaaaaa._

_But never mind him, how are YOUR meetings going today? What’s even on the agenda, if you can talk about it safely?_

Frisk responds to this with a bunch of eye-rolling emojis. _lots of export/import stuff & arguing abt how n where 2 deploy monster healers in hospitals & ngos, _they report to you. _remember those poop heads tht didnt wanna accept monster goods bc we dropped the value of precious metals n gemstones like 1k usd which is PEANUTS nowadays_

_Ah yes, those fools. Are they still trying to throw baby tantrums at you. (This is a rhetorical question and I’m assuming the answer is yes btw)_

_lol howd you EVER figure that one out_

_I’m very intelligent and also those guys are seriously assholes and it would be weirder and more worrying at this point if they WEREN’T trying to make your life difficult their every waking moment,_ you reply. You follow this up with a single modest knife emoji.

_they literally have NOOOOO chance of getting their way here 2 theyre just being difficult fr the sake of it??????????? like???????????? i could be in my hotel room sitting on a dildo rn but nooooooooooooooooooo_

_Poor Frisk,_ you say, not even ironically. _I hope you get time to do some more fun things you like today to make up for this complete and utter shite._

_me 2 tbqh??? im w/u theres so much better i have to do instead of dealing with these diaper poopers ://////_

_Down with diaper poopers,_ you type, grinning. _Send them to jail for their pooping crimes._

 _or at least get em out of my face :(_ Frisk replies to you.

 _We can only hope,_ you tell them. _Here’s to hoping you can get out of political purgatory sometime soon._

And you hold your phone at arm’s length to take a bad selfie of yourself lying on Asriel, so that you can send it to them for moral support. They reply with a bunch of hearts, so hopefully that means you were able to do _some_ manner of good.

 

 

The two of you progress from video games to doodling, still stretched out on the sofa.

Knitwear you sell—you have a patreon with tutorials, you ship custom orders every month, you have a couple of online stores and even rarely have your work set out at physical ones—and that keeps you able to fund your fallback stress stim with high-quality yarn and new needles without needing to dip into your joint funds. It’s what you’re sitting on in hopes of investing in a loom sooner or later to try your hand at different kinds of weaving, and it’s how you buy your books (and bookshelves, because you always buy physical copies when you can).

It’s also what you use to finance your consumption of art supplies, thereby allowing you to keep drawing as purely a hobby, something you only ever do for fun. Which is good, because most of what you do is sketch from life, either in ordinary graphite pencil or with colored pencils or watercolors over top, sometimes markers. If you wanted to commercialize your art, you’d have to get into digital, at which your skills are not exactly great and to which you’d have to devote a LOT of time to get up to snuff. That would be fine if you were doing it completely because you wanted to—you probably will play around in digital art more someday, just for fun—but if your drawings aren’t for you and something you care about, it just sucks the life right out of you.

Currently you’re doodling Asriel, who’s an extremely good model: He’s just been making individual scribbles, or maybe notes, in his own sketchbook, otherwise just making faces and tapping his pencil on the paper. He wiggles his feet from time to time—moving his legs tends to help ground him—but that’s about as much as he’s moving.

You rub the page a little to blend the graphite and then hold your sketchbook up to compare to the real article. It wound up being a _pretty_ good likeness, with only a few mistakes—you’re going to master how to properly express optical caustics in grayscale one day, but it’s not today.

Satisfied, you close your sketchbook and set your things down on the coffee table. “What are you doing, anyway?”

Asriel’s head swings up abruptly, and he stares at you almost as if he’d forgotten that you were sitting here on the sofa with him. “Oh, just… just jotting down some ideas.”

“Ideas for what?” you press, raising your eyebrows and smiling.

“You have to promise that you won’t laugh first,” he says sternly.

“I can’t necessarily promise that I won’t laugh, but I won’t bully you for it,” you say, pausing in closing the velcro on your braces to draw an X over your chest.

Asriel rolls his eyes and looks out the window, avoiding looking at you. “They’re… well, story ideas.”

“I don’t see what there is to laugh at about _that.”_ Asriel has gotten pretty good at writing stories, certainly much better than his baby chuunibyou God of Hyperdeath days; he doesn’t really share his writing with anyone aside from family and friends, but you keep telling him that it’s good. “Are you finally thinking of submitting a novelette or short story to a journal, then?”

“Nnnnnnot exactly,” Asriel hedges, and then he turns to look at you, lifting one huge hand to scratch at his nose. “I kinda… I’ve always thought it’d be real nice to maybe… write a picture book someday. Not under my own name or anything, because I don’t want to get dogpiled by the media about it or any of my stories getting interrogated over my politics. But I mean… I’ve always liked picture books, so…”

“You certainly have.” He’s still got most of his old books from when he was a kid. “What sort of story are you thinking about writing?”

Asriel smiles at you now. It’s a difficult expression, with furrows between his eyebrows and his eyes narrowed even though his mouth doesn’t twist. “Honestly, the easiest stories I can think of to tell for kids are… sorta autobiographical. Y’know. About humans and monsters trying to make friends, and sorting out misunderstandings about their different cultures. Or about spoiled, selfish princes with mean senses of humor who don’t understand why they don’t have any friends.”

“Ree, honey,” you say, laughing just a little. “Even if it’s for the sake of the next generation, I wonder about just how masochistic you’d even have to BE to drag yourself in print. Though I can definitely understand why you wouldn’t want to publish this under your own name.”

Asriel laughs at this too, a little. “I guess it is a little masochistic. I… y’know, I also kinda want to… write a little about what to do for your friends if they’re in a rough spot, and… and how to learn how much you should stand up for your own needs vs someone else’s, too. So that, maybe, if I could teach just a couple of kids how to understand and deal with those situations, and even just those kids would know better than to wind up like you and me and Frisk…”

“There is definitely a lack of children’s literature that talks about how to identify and deal with abuse,” you agree. “I think there’s some sense that it’s inappropriate to talk about that kind of thing to small children.”

“Which is bullshit,” Asriel says. “Because it’s _happening_ to children. How’s anybody supposed to know that it’s wrong unless someone tells you?”

“Exactly. You wouldn’t believe the number of things I’ve complained about to you or Undyne thinking it’s just an annoying thing my parents or classmates did only for you to be completely horrified for my sake, and I _knew_ that I was being abused.” You lean back. “But I would still expect to get pushback from publishers about writing that kind of content, because think of those poor innocent children who are clearly too fragile and/or stupid to be able to comprehend the existence of mundane evil.”

“Yeah. I’d want to get my foot in the door first,” Asriel agrees, nodding. “Plus… I know I’m not good enough of a writer to handle that sort of thing just yet. I’d want to start off with the monsters-and-humans-being-friends sort of book or the how-to-not-be-an-unpleasant-brat sort first.

“Anyway, I was just writing down some basic ideas for characters and plots. I know I’ve still got a lot of work to do… I’d have to write the stories and come up with a pen name and then find an artist and talk to different publishers… but if I don’t get started ever, I can’t expect to make it happen, so.”

You stretch to pat his knee. “If you think it would work well with your stories, you could talk to me about doing the illustrations.”

He perks up, eyes going wide. “Really? But don’t you usually like to draw for yourself better…?”

“It’s hard for me to get motivated drawing things that I don’t care about, but I care about your stories,” you tell him. “Plus, if these characters of yours are going to be vaguely based on you and me and Frisk, then oughtn’t I have some control over how we’re going to be portrayed?”

He laughs and reaches out to cover your hand in his. “I guess that sounds fair, yeah.”

 

 

You go on talking about this for about another hour, him telling you what he’s got and you asking questions and doodling concept sketches and him adding new things to his outline. Then Asriel makes a face and says that he’d better do paperwork before he conveniently forgets to touch it forever, and, well. You guess that’s as good an excuse as any to put on an audiobook and get further into the scarves you’re going to need to send out at the end of the month anyway.

But you get through the rest of your book, finish one scarf, and start the next, and when you stop your playlist to keep it from repeating from chapter 1 and look over at the table, Asriel’s still sitting there with his head in his hands, scowling sourly at his papers.

You sigh and take your headphones off, setting them and your knitting down on the coffee table. “Ree, it’s been two hours. That’s enough Official Job for one day.”

He sits back in his chair and groans. “Yeah, but…”

“No, none of that.” You stand up and stretch. “This is a vacation and you need to relax, not do all your work in one glut and burn yourself out like this is your hotel-room day in between two conferences. How much more of this stuff do you need to do this month?”

Asriel makes a face. “These papers, then I’ve got to transcribe them and do some other stuff online, and then there’s two speeches to write.”

“How much progress have you made on the papers?”

He grimaces more deeply. “About half?”

“Are you in the middle of a sentence or anything, or can you stop right now?”

“I _guess_ I could stop…” he says, lowering his nose to look at the papers in distaste.

“Okay, good. You can do the next half tomorrow, or the day after if we wind up not having any time.” You step over onto the kitchen tile to the table, gather up the papers, tap them to get them into a neat stack, and return to the living room to put them on top of the TV’s cabinet. “You are officially banned from doing any more politics today, sir.”

“Oh noooo,” Asriel calls. “How are you possibly going to enforce a ban like that, hon?”

You smirk at him. “Isn’t that obvious, Ree? I am going to distact you with a clever ruse.”

“Oh?” He leans back in his chair, grinning. “And what sort of ruse would that be?”

The table is still cleared from him working there, which is extremely convenient. You take the chair next to his and gently set it aside, then throw one leg over his lap to sit on it, straddling him. He swallows, the gesture obvious with the two of you face-to-face, and you smile at him.

“Well,” you say, “why don’t I just show you instead of monologueing?”

“Gosh,” he says, “this is starting to sound like my kind of distaction.”

You laugh, and reach in to hold his face while you lean in and kiss him.

Asriel keeps his hands on your thighs to help support you, warming your legs up quickly while you trace the seam of his lips with yours over and over. At last you tilt your head slightly to the side and lick along his lower lip right where the eyetooth protrudes; Asriel shivers underneath you and licks your mouth back, demurely.

You shift and chase him, slipping your tongue into his mouth to lick at his, shifting your hands so that your fingertips brush the corners of his lips. He whines. The soft sound hits you in the base of your spine, sends warmth unfurling between the bones of your hips, pounding in your clit and slicking the mouth of your pussy. Your breasts brush lightly against Asriel’s chest from time to time when you breathe.

Asriel whines again and shifts, tucking the tip of his tongue under yours, provoking a sound from you that you didn’t intend to make. He licks at the inside of your lip, your cheek, and then traces the roof of your mouth. It feels like your body is a house and he’s flicking the lights on in every room with cheerful abandon, the heat coming on after it. A bulge is starting to rise in his lap against the fabric of his sweatpants, pressing neatly between your legs, firm and warm. You squeeze his thighs between your shins and roll your hips gently. Contact burns, even through your clothes. Asriel moves his hand to your side, his thumb sweeping up and over your breast; heat swamps your skin in its wake, your nipple hard and tingling even though he barely touched it.

It’s not the gilded, honeyed arousal from this morning: It’s more like someone poured adrenaline straight into your veins, but you just got the benefits instead of the anxiety and the strain on your heart. Your whole body is quivering with anticipation, twitchy and impatient, goosebumps on your arms and your thighs, nipples and clit stiff and taut. Your restrained thrusts against Asriel’s cock are spreading your own warm precome over the length of your vulva, teasing and preparation all in one, but not enough consistent pressure over your lips and clit and around your entrance for you to come from that alone.

If Asriel paid solid attention to those hot spots on the roof of your mouth and under your tongue, though—if he were playing with your nipples—you can’t help but squirm, just thinking of it.

But he pulls out of the kiss, whining, lapping a little at the side of your throat. “Chara, I,” he says between huffs for breath, warm on your dry skin but spreading a chill where he’s dampened it with saliva. “Can I lay you back, I need to take my pants off?”

“Yes,” you gasp, and drop his shirt to fumble with the fly of your jeans, undoing the button and the zipper.

Asriel lifts you, and you push the waistband of your pants and your underwear down off your hips. As soon as your bare ass touches the table, you pull them down to your knees; while Asriel’s standing and fumbling with his own pants you kick them awkwardly off to drop to the floor. You tear your shirt off too, flinging it in the vague direction of the living room; you can hear it slap softly against the floor but you don’t look to see where it landed, too busy squirming out of your sports bra. You pick your wrist braces off and discard them with your bra on the table beside you; the scratchy backs and edges of the velcro fasteners are supremely not sexy to feel against your own skin. All you’re left with is your locket, which rests warm against your breastbone.

Now that you have the leeway to look at Asriel again, you can see that he’s naked but for his locket too; it dangles where he stands slightly bent over, his cock hard and wet at the tip and swaying lightly, the lips of his sheath spread wide around the base. His pupils are blown out and his mouth hangs slightly open as he pants; the fur of his mane is puffed out in all directions again, and one of his ears is askew.

He shuts his mouth and swallows, and reaches out kindly to frame your waist between his hands. “Not too uncomfortable?” he manages.

You shake your head. “Maybe if we meant to be here for closer to an hour, but. No.”

He laughs, breathlessly, and shifts his hands to your upper back. “Lean down?” he asks, and you nod and let him lower you, set the arches of your feet up against the curved edge of the table.

The table’s stiff and a little cool against your skin, but it’s not a significant enough discomfort to register against how aroused you are. Asriel swallows and runs his hands over your thighs, a comforting heat that scours away all worry, all thought, all care for anything that isn’t this moment.

You smile up at him and allow your legs to fall splayed.

Asriel plants one hand on the table beside you, firmly resting his weight as if to test that the table won’t buckle. This is frankly adorable of him; it’s far from the first time he’s fucked you or Frisk against or on top of it. While he’s there he leans in to kiss you again; your knees softly brush his fur and you have to fight not to thrust your hips up into the air and smack him in the stomach.

So you reach up to touch his face and gently tap on his cheeks until he pushes himself up to stare round-eyed at you.

“Enough teasing,” you say. “I want you to really touch me.”

You drop one hand to your chest to play with your locket until you know he’s looking, then slide your palm over your own bare skin to cup your breast, trail your fingers over your ribs and your belly until they fit between your legs, low enough for you to lift yourself just slightly off the table and spread your labia. The table digs into your spine uncomfortably, but your pussy thrills to the touch, precome starting to trail over your ass.

Asriel shifts above you, raising his upper body a little so that you can see he’s got his free hand along the base of his cock. He rests the shaft, wet and deliciously warm, lengthwise against your lips and starts to shift his weight forward and back, dragging the sticky-wet skin of the shaft up and down over your vulva with the thrusts.

You curl your toes and hum, letting go of yourself to grab the edge of the table behind your head instead, where you can get balance and won’t be in the way. Asriel’s huge, warm and smooth and wet with trails of his own precome. His pulse is wild, tangible in the thicker veins just under the skin, tickling against the lips of your pussy where it beats. The pressure is less precise than when you use your hands on yourself, but it’s much more consistent; the stimulation is spread from the back of your lips all the way up to your clit. As Asriel moves, you push against the table with your feet to lift up and grind along his shaft.

He moans, pretty eyes fluttering shut. “Chara—Chara, you’re so warm, you’re so _wet…”_

“You feel real good, Ree,” you manage breathlessly. “Give me more?”

“Chara—Chara,” he cries. “Oh, Chara, tell me if it’s too much, ‘cause I—”

His precome drips into your pubes, and you jump a little, and both of you moan. His locket glitters in the air above you.

“Faster,” you whisper. “Please. I want to come, Ree…”

He whimpers and tears up and begins to thrust in earnest.

It’s nothing like the thick, even strokes like punctuation when he’s inside you. Asriel’s hips move jaggedly, stuttering, jackrabbiting drunkly, quick and sharp for a few strokes and then ponderous and shuddery the next. He shifts his weight repeatedly, returning to adjust himself, trying to keep from slipping away or pinching your sensitive inner labia. The unpredictable movement _burns,_ dragging you to the brink of orgasm and then shying away like the tide.

You want him _inside_ you, for him to swoop down from a thrust to trail the tip of the head down your vulva until it sinks into your pussy and then to slide in, gentle and molten. But you also don’t want him to stop rubbing you like this, insistent and unsteady as a heartbeat.

Asriel’s thrusts get wilder as you get wetter and more slippery with anticipation; he squeezes his eyes shut tight and his claws scrape uselessly at the tabletop and he drops his other hand to your thigh. His soft soft warm warm balls collide gently with your ass once, twice, three times. Heat thrums through your lips, lances through your clit, shoots up through your stomach and your breasts, thrilling for an orgasm that’s _almost_ in reach; little flecks of your own fluids splatter against your thighs and pubes, the aching entrance of your pussy soaked and eager for sustenance, a starving mouth.

He sobs just once, hard, and his cock jumps against your clit in a way that _almost_ pushes you over the edge, and comes in hot sticky splashes over your belly and the undersides of your breasts, nearly burning you. He pulls away from you, trailing clear ribbons of your precome, and shifts his hand from your thigh to plant it parallel to the other, resting his weight on them. His whole body heaves as he pants.

That almost-climax recedes again, and your body’s still aching for release but you just stare absentmindedly up at Asriel, his sideburns and the fur of his muzzle damp with tears and saliva above you; and at the streaks of his come along your skin, mostly staying put but lazily running down your right breast. He got the edge of your left areola, a white pearly bead crowning the bumpy puckered skin, but thankfully he managed to miss your locket. Cleaning and polishing it is always a pain; you have to be so careful not to disturb the delicate mechanisms of the tiny music box inside.

Asriel opens his eyes as his breathing starts to return to normal. His gaze is unfocused at first, but slowly travels the length of your body and then back up to your face. His tongue flips out once, wetting his mouth before he swallows and says, “I’ll clean that up for you, don’t worry.”

You smile up at him, and he ducks his head to nuzzle your cheek. “You didn’t get to come yet either, did you?” You don’t answer out loud, just shake your head; he nuzzles you again. “Let me see what I can do about that, too.”

Your pussy clenches, that ache intensifying. “Please,” you whisper.

“Okay,” Asriel answers, his voice low, and he leans down to lick at the corner of your jaw, then trails butterfly kisses down over your collarbone and the top of your breast. His tongue flicks at the nipple just once, smearing the come near it—and then he opens his jaws politely and closes his mouth over the whole nipple and areola, gently laving at it and then suckling. You wrap your arms around the back of his head, fists tight and awkward to keep from grabbing his fur, and you cry out.

He shifts to your other breast, softly shaking his head to loosen your grip, and washes the come from it neat and tender in broad, brisk wet warm licks. You let your right hand drop to press against your mouth, muffling the long loud moan that pours out of you.

You can’t keep your eyes closed: You keep watching, keep staring as Asriel shifts to lovingly and patiently kiss and lick his own come off your middle, eyes half-closed, a dreamlike intensity on his face. He stops to nuzzle the root of your breast before shifting to the base of your ribs and your waist, cleaning your skin off with long diligent licks; he stops to leave a flirtatious little nibble at your navel when he reaches your belly. He breathes out in long purposeful sighs and hums, swirling warm where your skin is dry and making your hair stand on end where it’s wet.

He’s backing up as he travels, moving his hands and his whole torso to crouch next to the table instead of being bent over you. So you move your own free hand down to cup your breast, kneading lightly, rolling the nipple between your forefingers and thumb; your own touch throbs in your chest and between your legs.

Asriel settles with his face between your thighs and licks you, one soft tentative stroke. Your back arches and your eyes snap shut; you sob into your palm and squeeze your breast, arch your back and grip the table as hard as you can with your feet. Tiny shockwaves of warm fidgety pleasure seem to radiate through your hips and lower belly.

He licks again, his tongue spread out wide and flat this time, one long stroke from the base of your folds to your clit, and you sob again, louder.

Asriel’s tongue is long, flat, gentle and soft and _flexible._ It’s thinner than Frisk’s but much wider; he can stroke your whole pussy at once, but that doesn’t stop him from—you twist your upper body to bear the sensation—curling his tongue around your clit to suck it gently.

The pressure from Asriel’s tongue vanishes for a moment and then returns, wetter, caressing your whole vulva twice and then sliding feathery soft between your inner and outer labia. Where you expect him to do the same with the other side, he returns to tiny whispery flicks of the very tip of his tongue along your clit, quick and ticklish and unbearable. His warm breath swirls through your pubes, and then he drops his mouth again, tongue curled to slip inside you just briefly, dipping in to catch your own wetness and then spread it over your lips: Softly, firmly, softly, in between the neglected side of your labia.

It’s harder for Asriel to suck than it is for Frisk, just because of the shape of his mouth and the way that his lips are thinner and can’t pucker like a human’s. He can’t use his fingers either; his fur is too uncomfortable when it’s wet, and having his claws so near to your vagina makes you nervous. But his _tongue,_ god, his tongue absolutely makes up for that.

His tongue slides inside you again, much deeper this time: So thin and so gentle that your body almost wouldn’t register the penetration, except that he firmly licks and teases at your walls as he withdraws it: A gentle pleasurable stretch, and a shower of fireworks against your closed eyelids as he crosses your g-spot. He pushes into you and licks back out a few times more—you can feel the gentle pressure of his eyeteeth on your skin just once, slipping a little through your precome—and then withdraws to tease your entrance directly, wet and burning right where he knows you feel it strongest.

The tongue disappears again for just a moment, and then returns, stroking your whole vulva as before. He moves up to your clit—you think he’s going to stay there, you’re trembling and you splay your legs further to give him room—but then he swirls gentle parentheses between your lips and then his tongue slips swift and strong inside you, as deep as he can; your head and shoulders loll back with the force of it. He strokes your g-spot firm and insistent, booming pleasure like thunder rolling, and the sides and flat of his tongue still press tight to the mouth of your pussy, and you shake your head and cry _“Ree, I’m—”_ through your fingers.

He presses harder, and you come in his mouth.

You arch your back and shout, your hand clenching reflexive on your breast, but you can still _hear_ the patter where your come hits tile below, as though it were sudden highly localized rain. Asriel withdraws his tongue with care and laps more gently at your vulva as you push into his mouth helplessly, riding him through the aftershocks. He slows to a stop and your body goes limp, your hands relaxing and your left foot sliding off the edge of the table, your breath long and ragged.

“About time,” you manage gustily, and Asriel chuckles.

“Good one?”

 _“Best.”_ You lie there for a little while longer, dizzy and collecting yourself. Your whole body feels… _floaty._ “You ‘n Frisk’re so good at eating me out. Love you.”

He gently butts your shin. “’Course we had to get good at eating you out. You love getting eaten out. You okay?”

“Yes.” Breathe. “You?”

“Yeah. Can I move you? I’m less incapacitated by afterglow, and… somebody’s gotta clean the table if we’re gonna eat dinner here later, ‘stead of just me eating pussy.”

“I’d offer to help, but I’m _so_ dead.” You can’t help but giggle. “Thank you.”

Asriel kisses your ankle. “Anytime.”

 

 

You manage to clumsily get back into your underwear and your shirt before Asriel scoops you up and sets you down to doze on the sofa; when he comes back to stroke your shoulder and rouse you, he smells faintly of lemony disinfectant and hasn’t bothered to put any clothes back on at all. You curl up in the crook of his arm, face buried in his chest, and there the two of you cuddle, both far too sated to bother with any more sex yet.

He puts on anime when you start to feel more coherent, some slice-of-life show with gorgeous animation and crisp character acting, and you nestle into him and watch contentedly until you’re through with five episodes and your stomach has started to growl.

“Sounds like maybe dinnertime?” Asriel suggests, and you shrug a little and laugh.

He has you cut carrots and peel potatoes for him while he slices turkey and duck to cook, and you’re happy to work on the basic preparations. That and instant food—anything you can throw into the microwave or toaster oven or on the range by itself, without your having to mess with it—is about the most confident you can bring yourself to be in the kitchen, ever. It doesn’t matter that Asriel was ultimately the one to stick flowers in pie: You _knew_ he was wrong and that’s not what ‘cups of butter’ meant, but you still let him do it, and that means that you shouldn’t be allowed to do any heavy duty cooking anymore. It’s that simple.

You carve the coins of carrot into star and flower shapes while you wait for Asriel to get done sticking the meat in the oven grating the potatoes, and nibble on the scraps.

The carrots join peas, water chestnuts, and baby corn in a pot to steam, and you return to the sofa, stretching out and closing your eyes. The air is slowly filling with the smell of dinner—latkes and meat and vegetables—and the only _possible_ way you could be more content right now is if Frisk were home too.

You frustrate yourself: Every time one of them is out for work but the other is home, your heart is torn in two directions. You don’t have to compete with Frisk for Asriel’s attention, you get to have him all to yourself without feeling guilty that Frisk is being left out, you don’t have to worry about your presence getting in the way of any kink stuff they want to do or stressful plans to leave and stay with other friends while they monopolize the house for kink stuff. Little moments like your talk with Asriel about his picture book plans would straight up not have happened if Frisk had been home too. One-on-one time with either of your partners is _precious;_ it makes the world feel like you’re living in a Ghibli movie.

But you still miss Frisk. You wish they could’ve been here to snuggle with in the morning, and eat with at noon, and do fun things with in the afternoon. You miss their arms around you and their gentle hands on your body. Every time you think about how things could be even better if they were here too, your chest burns and fills you with restlessness.

“All ready,” Asriel calls from the kitchen, and you sit up to go join him. This train of thought is pointless—you need to distract yourself from it, so you can properly appreciate the good parts of today.

You return to the table and sit across from Asriel, who pauses to beam at you and then returns to cutting the giant latke down the middle so that you can each take half. You don’t even bother trying to fork bits of it onto your plate with the heap of vegetables and the lightly marinated slices of turkey and duck; you just reach over and pinch a chunk off your half with your fingers and pop it into your mouth.

“Careful, it’s probably still hot,” Asriel says, and it is, but you chew it anyway.

“Very good,” you tell him as soon as you swallow, and he grins at you.

It’s such a nice, relaxed feeling to sit at the table half naked with your completely naked partner, a warm dinner in between you and no obligations for the rest of the night. You rest your feet on top of Asriel’s and break off another piece of latke.

He cooked, so you gather up all the plates when you’re both done, running water over the ones that can be put in the dishwasher and filling up half the sink with hot water and dish soap to let others soak. The cooking vessels Asriel didn’t bother to clean you pick up and run under the water, scrubbing them with a sponge and setting them in the drying rack one by one.

“Chara?” Asriel says from the table, sounding uncertain.

You look over your shoulder at him. He’s turned in his chair to watch you, so you have a very clear view of the head and first few inches of his cock protruding from the sheath, already starting to trail precome.

You can feel your own pulse strengthen between your legs at the sight, your clit pushing against its hood. The corners of your mouth lift a little, and you shut the faucet off without looking. “Are you going to reward me for doing all the dishes, then?”

His cock stands further free of his sheath, and he swallows; his locket bobs on his chest with the force of the movement. “Will you… can you stay right where you are?”

You turn your head slightly to consider the sink. It’s not as though you’re still doing the dishes and you risk breaking something if you lose concentration, so… “All right.”

Asriel rises carefully to his feet and steps to join you. He rests one warm hand on your hip, and leans down to nuzzle almost shyly at the nape of your neck. His velvety fur tickles, and you giggle a little; your nipples go hard against the fabric of your bra.

“Stop me if I do something you don’t like…?” he murmurs against your skin.

“I will,” you tell him, and reach back to scritch his forehead.

He slides his hand up under the hem of your shirt to softly hold your breast—just cupping it, not squeezing. He shifts his hand back and forth, rubbing with the thick pad of his palm, and then shifts his weight beside you and moves his hand up to come in contact with your skin. He lifts the fabric of your bra away with care and slides one fingertip in to get the pad over your nipple, so gentle that the claw doesn’t touch your skin or snag on your underwear.

He rolls the finger. You shudder, the swirls of light on the water in the sink blurring before your eyes. The pad of Asriel’s fingertip is firm and springy and grooved, hot and perfect, and he gently traces your areola with it, pushing tenderly along the side of your nipple, just the right amount of pressure. You feel lightheaded, almost; you lean into Asriel’s bicep and smile, still shivering. The sensation’s like—like light dripping merrily off the end of a sparkler, fizzing on the ground everywhere it touches, spreading, spraying modestly. There’s a building pressure in your lower belly, wetness welling up endlessly from inside you, the fabric of your underwear soaked with it.

Asriel shifts again so that he’s standing behind and over you, his hand stilling. “Is this okay?” he asks, voice cracking halfway through.

“It’s okay.” It’s nothing like his body covering yours in bed; you have a clear escape, ducking out from beneath him and dodging to the side, if you change your mind about liking this position. You don’t feel even a little bit trapped.

“Okay,” Asriel replies, and his free hand rises to softly touch your other breast, over the top of your shirt this time. Instead of squeezing it he trails his whole hand down your side, resting for just a moment on your hip before his fingers slip under your shirt to hook on your underwear. You rise up on your toes to prompt him, and he drags the wet boyshorts down your thighs, releasing them somewhere near your knees. They slide down your calves and hit the floor with a soft unassuming noise; you drop your gaze briefly so you won’t have to shuffle awkwardly to step out of them and kick them away.

Asriel’s cock skims the inside of your thigh, not quite hot enough to scald. He whines: The sound and the brush of flesh against flesh send a charge through your pussy. You breathe in, breathe out. Asriel releases your breast, and moves his right hand to the countertop for balance. His fur tickles at your elbow. Your anticipation is ripe, is liquid, is drumbeats in your lips and your vulva. You’ve wanted him all _day._

“Chara, can I…” he ventures. You know he’s holding the base of his cock to steady it, even only able to see his warped reflection in the water and (more vaguely) in the window. You know because he’s so close, because you’re so attuned to his body heat.

“Do it,” you say. Your voice is at some midpoint between plea and command. The insides of your upper thighs are growing damp, and there’s one adventurous drop of precome trailing towards your knee. “Ree, I want you inside me.”

 _“Chara,”_ he says, soft and shuddery and reverent. Such a helpless noise. It makes your pussy ache and your heart go tender.

You shift in place, spreading your feet wider and lifting your hips, leaning your weight forward onto your arms. Asriel inhales steadily over your shoulders, and then the head of his cock presses gently against your pussy, caressing your folds once, twice.

You carefully relax your muscles as Asriel finds your entrance and slides in, slow, slow.

Even without you trying to, your eyes flutter closed, your spine arches in, your chin tips up, your thighs quiver. Your mouth curves, your face and your chest burn. Asriel exhales gustily above you. Concentrated heat, wet and smooth and quivering with his pulse, opens you up and sates something in you that’s been desperate all day.

This. This _connection._ You crave the closeness just as much as you crave the physical pleasure of the sex itself. Sharing your mind and your soul and your every sensation first briefly with Asriel after your suicide, then longer with Frisk when their fall and a distant voice from another world woke you, was painful and confusing and overwhelming and _horrible_ but those moments when the intimacy finally clicked and _worked_ are something you’re going to miss all your life. You can’t ever get that absolute soul-deep nakedness and vulnerability back, but you can’t help but search for it, try to claw your way back to it, restless in your separate skin.

But now Asriel is inside you, body locked with and fitted to yours; now you’re holding him in your pussy. You’re connected, even imperfectly, even if he’s almost too big for you. Species notwithstanding, death notwithstanding, you’re connected. Your heart feels just as overfull as your pussy.

Asriel shudders. Your smile grows. You try to move the muscles in your lower belly that will flutter your walls around him, stroking him as gently as you’d stroke his face. It tickles to do, and your breath hitches as your pussy drinks in his solid warmth. Your nipples are so stiff that the press of your bra and your shirt are almost painful.

His first thrust is shaky, and not expecting it, your hips are drawn back along with his for just a few inches, loath to let him go. His thrust back in is smoother, and you brace your legs so that he won’t push your knees into the cabinets under the sink. Your toes curl on the tile. He moves slow, strokes your walls thoroughly with the length of his cock, steadfast as though his hand would rub down the length of your back to comfort you. A steady burn. He doesn’t slam against your cervix, carefully avoiding that pulverizing pain. The few times the tip of the head reaches all the way in it’s just gentle brushes, like wet petals.

Asriel moans low and changes his angle, the shallow rim dragging harder along the wall, and you almost choke on your cry as your pussy clamps down on him automatically. He wails _“Chara”_ and you shake all over and hold him tight, tight, until the orgasm ebbs.

He stays still, a gentleman, while you shudder and pant—it would be too much if he started moving again now. He twitches every few heartbeats, just a little, and he feels _huge_ inside you, and that’s about as much as you can bear.

“Okay?” he says at last, and you nod—once small, then more broadly, your hair swaying around your face.

He shifts his footing, moves his left hand from the counter beside you to softly support your lower belly, the pressure of his pads and softness of his fur setting off a bright _!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_ where your spine meets your skull and making you want to squirm. Then he’s moving again, with soft sounds of effort.

These thrusts are quicker and shallower, and _loud_ through your precome and through his, the tip of the head plowing against your belly wall and the rim raking the back, extra pressure against the mouth of your pussy, against your labia. Asriel’s panting raggedly above you, and your breath is coming in quick huffs too. If your hands weren’t still wet with dishwater you’d want to get one down to play with your clit, but the best you can do is to squeeze and relax as close in time with Asriel’s heartbeat as you can, and press your belly into his hand.

 _“Chara,”_ Asriel half-sobs again. “Chara _Chara_ god, Chara—”

Your whole body is tingling, buoyant, crackling stardust; you shiver against him, ecstatic, straining every nerve. “Asriel,” you whisper—or try to whisper; it turns into an urgent wanton whine halfway through. “Ree, give me just a little more—”

“Chara,” he cries, with mounting force, “Chara I’m gonna come, Chara, come for me—”

And he does.

And you do.

The way his cock jumps inside you, the solid hard pulse as he pumps his come into you—the thick wet rush that flows into you, that spills out over your labia, a distant lazy patter onto the tile—you wish you could slow down time, to savor each sensation, to stretch this moment as far as you can. Asriel grinds into you, whining low, straining to give you everything he can; you buck your hips as much as you dare, fucking yourself on his cock, on his hand, gliding through the thick sticky deluge of his semen.

He thrusts in as he softens so that the insides of his thighs are flush with the outsides of yours, and he shifts his right hand so that the whole forearm rests on the counter, and then you stay like that, both gasping. Your pussy slowly narrows back down around his cock as it returns to its usual size, so you still feel full.

You lean down and kiss his knuckles, weak and messy. “That was good,” you mumble into his fur. “That was really—really good.”

Asriel bends to nuzzle the top of your head, which is probably an awful stretch for his neck in this position. “Glad to know that the—the earth didn’t just move for me.”

You giggle a little. “I so don’t want to clean the floor right now.”

He giggles, too. “Me neither.”

“We should just move this upstairs,” you say, then frown as you remember. “Wait, fuck, the bed still doesn’t have any sheets on.”

Asriel laughs harder. His fur on your back and his cock inside you both tickle; both sensations are comforting rather than erotic. “We’re setting a great record for putting them on and then _immediately_ nutting all over them, huh.”

“That’s just—” you yawn, here— “how it goes sometimes in this drama life.”

You giggle at each other and snuggle, messy with sweat and come as you are, you ignoring how your knees are starting to sting.

“Ree?” you say soft, burying your face in his arm.

“Mm?”

“I’m glad you’re home.”


End file.
